


Howling Hills

by lazybug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Hate to Love, Just in passing though, M/M, Original Character(s), Slowly Budding Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-15 18:39:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2239236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazybug/pseuds/lazybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson's family owns a country club, and Scott, Allison, and Stiles are lucky enough to spend the summer working there. Jackson is a dick, but maybe he isn't all that bad in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Slight death mention - but it's canon and already hurts pretty badly (aka Claudia is mentioned, in harsh mannerisms).  
> Violence

Summer meant fun, late nights, spending endless days with friends, and more fun. Or it was meant to. Until Stiles’ dad talked to Scott’s mom and the entire summer was ruined. It was in the fun department, anyhow.

Stiles knew that it was important to have jobs on his college applications. It was just good thing to have, but that didn’t make a summer job any more exciting to Stiles. Sadly, the discussion was completely moot. Scott and him were going to work at the Whittemore’s country club, Howling Hills.

How stupid was that name? Beacon Hills didn’t even have any wolves. It was probably the stupid werewolves story from when he was a little boy. That has been going on for ages. It was tagged right along with all the other ghost stories of his town. Honestly, Stiles never got the hype. Apparently, the Whittemore’s did.  

Anyway, so that’s the back-story of how Stiles got to be folding fluffy towels every day, and following around people with golf, tennis, swimming, and many other various sporty bags. The upsides? There were none other than the tips—which, granted, were better than his paychecks from when he worked in the fast food business. Hell, he could buy a brand new car with the tips alone (if he was looking to get rid of the jeep, and that wasn’t happening).

As it turned out, on the weekends, the high school students were able to get off. During the week, however, they were required to stay on site in case of emergency. As much as Stiles thought it was ridiculous, it saved him money on gas and constantly driving back and forth from work to home and home to work.

There was a section of the housing that was specifically for the workers; it was rather homey and surprisingly nice to stay in. College students usually took to working on the weekends due to classes. All in all, the schedules and suites were correlated nicely. It was the nicest part of the job, honestly.

So maybe there were a couple upsides to the job. After those, nothing was particularly _good_ about his new job.

Today, Scott had lifeguard duties to deal with. He applied for the job of teaching swimming lessons along with being a regular old lifeguard. God knows why the kid took that opportunity. All the older women, and several men, would ogle him 24/7 without any care for how Scott liked being objectified. Though, Scott was very oblivious to the world around him for most of the time

To Stiles, it seemed like his best friend actually really liked the attention (when he noticed it). That, or he liked how Allison got jealous when she noticed from across the pool. It really figured that the two of them would get a lifeguard job. Together.

Don’t get him wrong, Stiles loved Allison to no end, but working with his best friend in the entire world all summer wasn’t fair. He only got to see Scott when their schedules worked out—which wasn’t very often. Normally, they had at least a dinner or lunch break together. At least there was that. He had to give props to their manager for at least giving them that opportunity.  

Today, however, Stiles was stuck with the job of being Jackson’s, the Whittemore’s only and adopted son, slave for the day. It was a great way to start the week. Why did he apply to be a “I-can-do-that worker” again? He practically had a new job, or person, every day. But all of the previous people he worked for were kind and paid generously. He liked working with those people.

It seemed that his luck had finally run out.

It was the last thing he wanted to be adhered to; Jackson, that is. And oh man, was Jackson Whittemore a thing.

The day had started out relatively normal. Stiles ate his usual bowl of cereal, met with the manager, found out his schedule, and went on his merry way to find his newest client. Now, he’d known beforehand that by the way that Jackie, his boss, was tiptoeing around everything, including names, he was going to have a rough day. He did not, however, expect to be dreading every step he took. Or resent every command he was given.

After stalking to the spot he was meant to meet his newest client, Stiles introduced himself to what he assumed was the man he was looking for. The guy had a scruffy beard, dark hair that was brushed back, and a strong jaw line. He was wearing a dark grey t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Yes, jeans, in the middle of summer, in California. It made Stiles cringe inwardly.

Stiles was also a smidge shorter than this guy, which made him feel important for whatever reason. It was a confidence boost to be a relative height to people he didn’t know. Whatever.

The man looked somewhat bewildered at first. Then, his expression changed to scrutiny. His mouth opened slightly before coming to a closed, annoyed pout.  Stiles remained, stood there narrowing and un-narrowing his eyes at the man while leaving his own mouth open.

This was the spot he was supposed to meet the guy who was barking out orders for the day. Didn’t people know not to stand in places they weren’t meant to? Seriously.

They didn’t exchange any words following that. In his mind, Stiles hoped he would never have to have another awkward exchange with the man. It would probably result in the same way. Dude seemed to have no social skills whatsoever. The least he could’ve done was stick his hand out and introduce himself.

"Um," the man finally said after another minute of uncomfortable silence, "Jackson?" The man had a surprisingly softer, and relatively higher, voice than anybody would expect. Although, the forcefulness—what did that even mean—in it wasn't all that shocking. 

Soon after Stiles processed the name, he noticed Jackson standing behind the guy, holding back his laughter behind a fist. And all of this morning’s conversation swam into his mind. It’s no wonder Jackie didn’t say his name—she knew for a fact that Stiles would opt out as soon as the name left her lips. Sometimes, he really wished he knew better than to just go along with a plan. Years and years of putting up with Scott should have taught him better.

Regardless, Stiles still had to deal with Jackson.

Jackson knew of Stiles, Stiles knew of Jackson. That was really the extent of their relationship. They played lacrosse together for the past however many years. Jackson always picked on him at school, Stiles picked right back. It was a mutual feeling of disgust and annoyance.

It was easy to say that Stiles would rather not go near Jackson for the rest of his life. But why would life ever go his way? 

While he waited for the two boys to cut it out, Stiles ran his tongue over his teeth and crossed his arms. The polo he was wearing felt too small when he did that. But unfortunately, the policy stated that all staff members were required to wear at least one item of Howling Hills’ merchandise (polos, normal t-shirts, hats, pins, sweatshirts, windbreakers, and even shoes). Normally, it was a polo, or a sweatshirt if it was cold enough. Khakis were normally the go to for the outfit of the day whether they were shorts or pants.

Truthfully, Stiles was just glad that he didn’t need to wear that goofy windbreaker. Scott wasn’t so lucky, the poor guy.  

Without saying anything, the two started walking off, shoulders still shaking. Over his shoulder, Jackson called, “Stilinski,” and jerked his head in the general direction of the lake. Oh yeah, the entire plot of land faced a man-made lake. Stiles thought the Whittemore’s probably paid for it to be made—they sure had the money for it. 

The walk down to the lake was short-lived, but lively, no less. From the rich side of things, of course. 

Somewhere along the way, Danny, thankfully somewhat of a nice presence, joined the two boys in front of Stiles. At least he had the courtesy to greet Stiles like they were buds. It’s not like Stiles is constantly asking—” _Harassing_ , Stiles, it’s totally harassment,” Scott would say—Danny for his opinions on things or anything. Stiles liked Danny. He was a cool guy.

Two minutes later, all three ended up jumping off the pier straight into the water. Now, it wasn’t exactly cold but the lake couldn’t have been all that warm, either. It gave Stiles chills just thinking about it. He’d take the heated, indoor pool over the lake any day.

Every once in a while, one would bark an order, Stiles would run after the command, and return with said request. Honestly, his entire job was a game of fetch and then some.

He had to hold up a towel for Jackson, for god's sake.

"I didn’t want to be cold when I got out and the wind was blowing," Jackson argued, jaw taut. The sour look on his face only made Stiles laugh, considering all of Jackson’s hair was lying flat on his forehead. And that was quite a sight. Blackmail material for sure. He just wished he had his phone on him. 

"You look like a drowned cat, oh my god!"

Stiles took the punch well. Kind of. He actually whined and rubbed at his arm for a good five minutes, though it ached for much longer. Allison would’ve been proud of him for acting like a man. And if Scott were there, he’d probably slap the spot he was hit on and laugh while Stiles glared.

He ended up getting Jackson and all of his friends lunch, dinner, and copious amounts of alcohol. The bartender gave Stiles a pity look and a pat on the shoulder when he jerked a thumb over his shoulder at his boss-of-the-day. The bartender reacted like everybody else Stiles had come into contact with that day. After the day was over, he was sure he was going to be doing the same thing to the next poor kid who has to deal with Jackson Whittemore. He hoped to never work for him again, ever.

By six o’clock, Stiles was beat. He was cranky, annoyed, sore, tired, and so fucking happy that his dinner break was finally here. Naturally, he did a quick happy dance when he walked away from Jackson. And as consistency went, the first thing he did was call Scott so the two could eat together.

After numerous exchanges of ‘dude’s and ‘bro’s, they finally decided on ordering a pizza. It was better than spending fifty bucks on cheese sticks in the restaurant. Plus, Scott offered to pay. Nobody in their right minds would turn that down.

About a half hour later, they met up at the picnic tables by the dock. Scott had a fresh pizza in a box in his arms and a grin from ear to ear on his face. He was still in his bright red trunks and that awful, horrid windbreaker. But hey, Stiles would take any cheering up he could get.

And so the two took to shoveling grease into their mouths as fast as possible. After all, they were growing boys. Over too stuffed mouths, they discussed the day that they’ve had.

 Scott complained about having to help so many people. He complained and to Stiles, that was ridiculous. But hey, he wasn’t the one to take the lifeguard job. “Dude, I swear. It’s like people are drowning every two minutes. Wouldn’t you not go swimming unless you could swim?”

Stiles blinked for a few seconds. “That sentence had way too many double negatives that I’m not sure what you mean anymore,” he confronted, adding a laugh and shrug afterwards.

Scott just groaned in response.

In that moment, he sounded so distraught that Stiles couldn’t help but pity him. He also couldn’t help but snort a little. Because come on, Scott was as inattentive as a deaf and blind deer.

After licking excess grease off his thumb, he replied in his most fatherly tone, “Scott, I’m going to let you in on something. I don’t know if you’re ready to hear it, but you’re a fucking stud.” Stiles’ voice cracked by the end of the second sentence, when he started laughing a lot harder than he should have. “No, man, you’re totally hot. People are throwing themselves at you—or under water, I guess.” he finished lamely, chortling at the continuousness of his best friend’s obliviousness.

Scott grinned dopily for at least a minute, maybe longer. “Thanks, man.” Stiles only nodded in return, giving most of his attention to the slice at hand.

As he continued to eat, he watched the lopsided grin drop off Scott’s face when he glanced somewhere behind Stiles. Scott’s eyes hardened, and he stiffened his posture. In reply, Stiles tilted his head questioningly before throwing caution to the wind and picking up another slice of pizza.

“Anyways,” he started, “I had to work for Jackson today. Dude’s a prissy son of a bitch, let me tell you. He made me hold up a towel for him when he got out of the lake. A _towel_ , Scott, a fucking towel! Who does that? Why couldn’t he just get his own damn towel?”

Scott nodded at something behind him, again, and this time with wide eyes. “And then he had the nerve to yell at me for getting the wrong type of beer. Like I should know what beer he does or does not like. God, he acts like I’m some guy that should know every fucking thing about him. He’s such a dick, you know?” Stiles rambled, fully aware that Scott was trying to get him to stop talking. He ignored him. His rant was more important than some stuck up, rich snob behind him.

Scott continued, looking more and more apprehensive each time. He nudged his head forward in the same jerky motion as before and scrunched up his eyebrows in a way that was meant to be convincing or forceful. Warning, maybe?

Stiles shrugged, completely indifferent to his surroundings. Scott’s panicky mood continued for another thirty seconds before Stiles turned crotchety.

 ”Okay, okay. Seriously. Who are you gesturing to?” he finally gave in, twisting his back to look behind him. Before speaking, he shot a look of unease at his best friend. He also kind of hoped that Scott would get the message to tell Stiles’ dad that he loved him.

“Oh, Jackson. My break isn’t over until seven. I thought I told you that,” he voiced after a beat, albeit shakily.

Jackson looked like he was seeing red. He was pissed off and Stiles’ bagging on him a moment ago was not going to help. That is, if Jackson even heard any of it. He probably did.

Stiles watched in silent horror as Jackson stood in front of him, tongue raking over his teeth in what looked like pure acrimony and impatience.

 The blonde brought his hand up to his mouth, squinted, and then pointed a finger sharply at Stiles. “You took my keys,” he accused, tone leaving no room for argument, “Where are my fucking keys, Stilinski?" 

At that, the only thing Stiles thought to do was lean his head forward and screw up his eyes in sheer bemusement. He blew out of his nose, the sound almost resembling a laugh. “You’re serious?” he asked after noticing the cold, hardened expression still standing.

Jackson blinked at him, his expression morphing to incredulity while continuing to hold the fiery, furious demeanor. And admittedly, if looks could kill, Stiles would surely be a goner.

Slowly, and with his hands up, he stepped out from the picnic table. “Whoa, whoa, okay, man, I didn’t take your keys. Alright?” he tried, quickly licking his lips before carrying on.” If you want my help looking for them, I’ll be forced—glad to help you after I get off my break. I swear, I did not touch your keys,” he stated, more cautiously this time. He emphasized the last sentence carefully, hoping it would come off like it should've. 

When he was done speaking, he pinched his lips closed with his teeth. It was certainly not the right time to joke around, if his safety had any say. He couldn’t cover his apprehension with jokes, not now.

Jackson bit his tongue with his molars, a malevolent ghost of a smile there. He shook his head, movements becoming more and more sharp. If he was sitting, Stiles would expect one of Jackson’s legs to be bouncing repeatedly, even that being crisp and continually terrifying.

When he glanced around, Stiles finally noticed Danny and the guy from earlier walking up behind Jackson, looks of panic on their faces. Well, more on Danny’s part. The other guy looked kind of bored, actually.

Jackson narrowed his eyes again and shook his head in disbelief. When his posse joined him, he spurned Stiles’ presence. And at least he could breathe for a brief, brief moment.

“Danny, you didn’t take my keys, did you?” Jackson asked, a certain sarcasm in his tone. Danny shook his head and raised an eyebrow (Stiles would hope to be with a concerned expression) in his direction. Their eyes locked for a minute. He wished he could scream out his terror and thoughts through his eyes. Sadly, he probably only looked scared out of his mind.

“Derek?” Another shake of the head.

Stiles was truly going to die. He was living his last few moments right here. He would joke, but he was too scared of what would come out of his mouth. Probably some sort of wail for help.

Jackson hummed in thought, placing a thoughtful finger on his chin. “I don’t remember being around anybody else today. Do you, guys?” he asked, aiming the question at his friends. “Yeah didn’t think so.” His voice was laced with a vicious type of bitterness, masking every hint of joking.

“Where are my fucking keys, Stilinski?” That time, is wasn’t voice liked a question. Not at all.

Stiles mouth went dry. He knew what all those books meant when they explained what a fish gulping for water looked like now. He bet his current expression was spot on. Once more, he repeated that he didn’t take them. He hadn’t seen them once all day.

And now would be a great time for his best friend to come to his rescue, if only he hadn’t bolted the moment Jackson accused him of theft.

Jackson laughed. A cold, heartless laugh. “Right, right, my bad,” he replied. He then took two steps backwards, widening his arms in a questioning, drawn out shrug.

 In a shout, he added, “Does anybody know who took my goddamn  car keys? Was it a ghost?” Challengingly, he quirked an eyebrow as he scanned the surrounding area for people. “Oh, I know. I bet it was Mrs. Stilinski. Did your mommy take my keys, Stilinski?” he sneered. The last sentence he spoke in an oddly menacing baby voice. How Jackson managed to be terrifying when talking like he would a puppy was beyond Stiles.

"Jackson," Danny warned, his look giving everything he had to say.

Jackson continued, dragging on about how childish this was. And how Stiles should just man up already. And that he would personally make a call down to the sheriff station to report a theft. Each syllable he spoke sustained the harsh, bitter emphasis of rage. His face continued to heat up, jaw still tense.

It was unnerving. 

Meanwhile, Stiles stood there, nodding and taking the whole situation in. He forced a closed mouth smile. He considered lots of things at that time; storming off without saying a word, punching Jackson as hard as he could, crying (like he knew was going to happen soon), laughing to mask the pain, and even just standing there and taking it.

Eventually, he gathered enough courage to speak. “ _You_ ,” he tried, voice immediately breaking, “—you don’t get to pull that card on me. You don’t get to fucking say that to me.” The fight in him promptly went away when a few tears streaked his cheek. He sniffled.  “You know what? Fuck it. I’m not staying here. I don’t have to take this shit. I've been here, what, a week? Awesome. It's great." Stiles pivoted and headed in the direction of his suite, biting at the inside of his cheek to keep himself from spitting out the rest. He knew it would only take one more push for it to come out. 

"You gonna go cry to your mommy, Stilinski?" Jackson called after him

That was it. Stiles rubbed the back of his neck quickly and turned on his heel. He sauntered up to meet Jackson face to face and sneered.  

"And while you’re at it, why don’t you go ask your real parents why they didn’t want you. I think I just found out the reason,” he hissed. He turned again. 

 Every ounce of his being felt bitter, and unquestionably crushed. 

That didn't stop Jackson. He snorted from behind Stiles. He heard the short intake of breath, though. There was no masking that. He also heard the rustling of hands going to hold him back, and the terse conversation to keep him in place. 

His shoulder was tugged backwards, twisting his upper body backwards. One second he was standing tall, and the next he was on his ass in the grass. The sting from the punch hung on his lower lip. Stiles brushed his hand against his lip, pain immediately pulsing there. A quick glance at his hand revealed the gash where he was hit. He spat at the shoes to the right of his head. The metallic taste in his mouth remained and somehow made him feel worse. 

He noticed a hand held out to him to help him up, but ignored it. After pushing himself up to his feet, he sputtered over the blood again. It wasn't much, honestly, but he didn't want any of it in his mouth anymore. 

Over a piercing glare, he snarled, “Eat a dick, Jackson.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was beta'd like really last minute and quickly so if there are any mistake, they're my own and if i see them, i'll make sure to fix them asap thank you and yeah

Stiles was planning on packing every single thing he had in the suite when he got back. He planned on getting in and out as quickly as possible. The thing was, by the time he stomped all the way across the however many acres, his nose was running nonstop, his lip was sore and still bleeding, and his vision was blurred from holding back the waterworks.

Honestly, Stiles was proud of the fact that he even made it across the grounds in one piece.  
He reached the door fairly easily. It took a few tries to slide the key card, but eventually he got it. He wasn’t sure if his hands were shaking because he was angry, on the verge of a panic attack, if he was losing too much blood or if he was going to be sick. Maybe all of the above. Actually, no. Maybe all of the above aside from losing too much blood, because, let’s be real, he was only knocked in the lip.

After the dilemma with the door, he broke down.

Once inside, his fist hit the wall and his back hit the door. At first, he was standing, relatively strong, followed by sliding down the door until his knees were level with his chest.

The whirlwind of emotion somewhat surprised Stiles. It wasn’t that he was upset about anything in particular, per se. Well, in a way he was. Nobody ever brought up Stiles’ mom, mostly because they knew how hard of a subject it was on him. Nobody has ever made a mockery of his mom’s death. Nobody ever hit him, either. He knew he deserved it a lot of the time, but nobody ever truly hit him.

And it shouldn’t have been a surprise that Jackson would.

But it did.

And that sure as hell didn’t mean this all should’ve hurt like that.

Sure, the fact that it was Jackson helped a tiny bit. He knew Jackson wasn’t exactly the nicest person but Stiles kind of considered them friends. Somehow. Maybe.

Ones with mutual hatred for one another, at best, but still, friends.

Jackson never said anything about his mom before. At least, he hadn’t to Stiles’ face. It was very well possible that he talked about it behind his back. He thought Jackson had that sort of respect. Apparently not.

And he looked so smug after it, too, which made everything that much worse.

Jackson took actual pride in the fact that he hurt Stiles. He was so fucking proud until Danny discouraged him with that steely look. Even after that, Jackson kept on firing his insults and jabbing at anything he could find.

And Stiles was just the blunt end of some sick joke, apparently.

Well, thankfully he didn’t have to deal with it for the rest of the summer. He was not going to. Not even if Scott used those big ole puppy dog eyes and that stupidly sad pout. Let it be known that his best friend knew how to use his assets to his own benefit and no one else’s.

After some time passed—and after Stiles got over feeling like he was going to throw up his entire dinner—he sat on his heels and gingerly touched his finger to his now swollen lip. Sniffling once again, he braced himself against the door to stand and hobbled brokenly to the en suite in search of a washcloth.

Once in the safety of the bathroom, he gave himself the liberty of throwing another useless punch at a wall and cussing at nothing and everything. This time, he ended up knocking down a few toiletries the country club provided.

He found a washcloth in the cabinet which housed all things from towels to shampoo to first aid kits. While he was at it, he searched mindlessly through the kit. Unsurprisingly, it held nothing useful.

Thoughts of his mom swam in his head when he ran the water in the sink. He was a clumsy kid, everyone knew that. He has memories of himself falling on numerous occasions, and his mother would always be there with a warm, damp washcloth and encouraging, whispered words about how strong and brave her little boy was for not crying.

There were four major differences between then and now: he wasn’t little any longer, his mother wasn’t there, he wasn’t strong nor brave, and he was crying.

Heaving a sigh, Stiles pressed the washcloth to his lip and sat on the edge of the tub. In the mirror, a disheartened version of himself stared back with bloodshot eyes and a puffy lip. The steady flow of tears has decreased vastly in the past five minutes.

Again, he thought of packing his bags and fleeing to the safety of his home.

For another minute, Stiles sat hunched on the bathtub rim before shoving himself up to start packing. Once he stood in front of the bureau, he second thought everything. All he had here were things at could easily be packed by Scott or even Allison. And right now? Right now, Stiles wanted off of this property as fast as possible.

He took a second, grabbed his phone of the top of the desk and bolted towards the door. He was out the door and fast-walking towards his jeep within fifteen seconds. On his way, he patted down his khakis for his keys, only to come up short. He swore under his breath.

At the jeep, he swore again, this time louder and with his hand hitting the door as punctuation. Behind him, a laugh erupted quietly. He heard the jingle of keys swinging on a finger. Stiles swiped his hand under his nose, fully aware that he looked like he’d been crying. Obviously, he wasn’t going to hide that. It would’ve taken too much effort.

"Your keys fell out of your pocket," the all-too-familiar voice of Jackson said. He swung the key ring around his pointer finger once more. His expression held every emotion yet nothing at all. His eyes looked cloudy but somehow sharper than usual, like he was trying too hard to hide something. It made Stiles’ stomach lurch and he immediately put up a guard.

As a reflex, he folded his arms across his chest, and winced at the apologetic look on Jackson’s face. When the blonde stepped forward, Stiles attempted to take a step backwards. His back met the passenger door of the jeep. He winced again. This time, he cleared his throat and spoke, “Right. Thanks. Can I have my keys, then?” His voice was tighter than he expected, along with exasperated.

Jackson stopped twirling his keys. His tongue wiped along his bottom lip and his eyes darted to the left of Stiles. He exhaled, tension rushing from his shoulders. After a beat, he glanced up to Stiles and stuffed his hands into his pockets, keys going with them. “I’m sorry,” he stated, sounding oddly sincere.

Stiles nodded and gestured lamely to Jackson’s pocket, hoping the boy would get the message.

"I’m sorry," Jackson reiterated.

Stiles scoffed numbly, rolling his eyes and holding his hand out for the keys. Jackson only stared at him like he had nothing that didn’t belong to him. Instead of asking again, because it wasn’t worth it, Stiles stalked back to his room. The telltale crunch of gravel behind him gave away Jackson’s persistence.

Stiles squared his shoulders and continued on, regardless of the boy trailing after him. All the while, Jackson squawked out apology after useless apology. Needless to say, he also got a door slammed in his face.

Half an hour, Stiles gave Jackson half an hour to stand outside his door. The knocking persisted for less than that. What he wasn’t expecting was his disembodied voice continuing thereafter. It was obvious that Danny—maybe even that other guy, Derek?—talked Jackson into this and wouldn’t let him leave without an accepted apology.

"Good luck with that apology, hot shot," Stiles called back, finally, "It’s not getting you anywhere." He was proud of the fact that his voice didn’t sound weak any more. Sure, it still had the gravelly after tones of crying, but for the most part it was his normal speaking voice.

"Take a walk with me or something. I’ll make it up to you. I’m sorry. Please, just—" he ended the sentence with a distressed hum, heard from through the door. Something else was muttered, probably meant for only Jackson to hear. He cleared his throat, knuckles knocking against the door again.

A proposition ensued.

It intrigued Stiles enough to open the door. Once his keys were in hand, he huffed and hung his head in defeat. “Make it three weeks and free food service,” he requisitioned, arm above his head and resting on the doorframe. “And you stay out of my schedule. No matter what.”

Jackson chewed on the thought for a minute while Stiles focused on standing his ground. There was no way a compromise was happening without a few ground rules put down first. Eventually, the older boy nodded. At first, he shook his head slowly but changed his tune fairly quickly.

"Alright, alright. Shake on it?" he inquired, holding his hand out after rubbing it across his forehead.

Just as Stiles was about to shake, he backed off. “Let’s go over the rules, here, buddy,” Stiles interrupted, putting on his best impression of his dad at work, “I only stay here for two more weeks. If I stay, you keep out of my hair. I get a schedule ahead of time. Free food, because this shit is expensive as hell—even if the tips are huge. You stay out of my personal space, time, and anything else. You never say anything to me, I say nothing to you. We both accept the apologies given and don’t bring up anything said ever again. Sound fair? Good. Nice doing business with you,” he finished, shaking Jackson’s hand quickly and shutting the door harder than needed.

Through the door, again, Jackson shouted, “But you have to finish your shift today, remember?” Surprisingly, his voice held no hint of anger; it was rather placid.

Stiles groaned, both inwardly and outwardly. He flapped his wrist at the door, unbothered by the fact that Jackson couldn't see the gesture. "Give me my break," he addressed in turn. "Twenty minutes," he added, dragging his feet as he trudged to the bathroom again. "I just want to take a shower, alright?" he continued.

He swore that he locked the door. He would have bet his life on it until the moment Jackson sauntered into his room like he owned the place, with an accompanying, "What? I couldn't hear you through the door."

He slammed the bathroom door and got in the shower, paying no mind to the ignorant, combative idiot now sitting on the edge his bed. _His bed_ , for crying out loud.

Two weeks were going to be his downfall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pretty short bc i have big plans for the next few chapters, sorry and thanks for being supportive and stuff


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles woke up with a yawn, his back cracking when he stretched. Already, he felt groggy and overly vitriolic. Last night, Jackson had him work his ass off, then continually bark the typical rude remarks, and then apologize profusely as if he was guilt-ridden. Simply put, Stiles went to bed feeling palpitant.

Mumbling to himself, he dragged himself out of bed, got dressed, and went on his way. He just knew today was not a day to mess with him. He only hoped he wouldn’t flip on Scott, or Allison. Or Danny, he added in afterthought.

Once in the restaurant, he pulled the box of Lucky Charms from under the spice cabinet. Let it be known, Stiles adored the people who worked the kitchen because they shared their snacks and treats. Lucky Charms were a delicacy in the kitchen. Unless you were one for oatmeal, of course.

Stiles ate in the kitchen most days. Because he was a worker, he never ate in the restaurant unless instructed individually. No worker really ever stayed out there for more than fifteen minutes. There wasn’t a policy rule or anything, but intuition could be used for the better sometimes. Plus, nobody had the poise—or patience—to sit in there while the early birds chattered about who got the worm.

Over the course of five minutes, Stiles had gotten several timid smiles shortly followed by a terrified look, three people asking if he wanted them to cover his shift so he could take the day off, and Scott staring at him, worried to all hell. Stiles only grunted in response to most of his questions.

He hoped that eventually his best friend would give up and let him enjoy the last bits of his cereal in peace—to no avail. While Stiles sat stewing in his irascibility, Scott bounced and grinned about how excited he was to be a lifeguard down by the lake because all the little ones would be down there today for lessons. And he got to be the lucky lifeguard.

Sometimes, Stiles just didn’t understand his best friend. It absolutely boggled him that Scott could be in such a chipper mood while he moped and groaned. Again, his best friend proved himself to be the most deliberately oblivious person out there.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, Stiles dumped his bowl into the nearest sink and set out to find out his schedule.

The first words (after a gasp) that came out of Jackie’s mouth were, “Honey, do you want to take the day off? I’m sure you could find someone to cover for you.” In turn, he scratched idly at his jaw and forced a smile through a scrunched face.

"I’m good," he fleered, an apologetic grimace flashing across his face after.

His manager’s look immediately turned to pity. She smacked her lips together after flipping through a couple pages. “Tell you what,” she started, glancing up with a sympathetic smile, “How about you bus tables for the day."

It was a simple task, bussing tables. All he had to do was clean up all the expensive shit off the tables, be polite when he had to be, and put tableware in the dishwasher. Ducking his head at a weird angle, Stiles nodded and smiled sheepishly.

Throughout the day, he took note of people he's seen around the country club before. He saw some of Jackson's entourage—Derek was his name, if Stiles remembered correctly—with a brown-haired girl who shared his charming, constant look of hostility. He had the pleasure of overhearing them speaking lowly of the decorating committee for the bonfire coming up on Friday night down at the shore.

Then, he saw the quickly fleeting figure of Jackson, with Scott strangely in tow. After that, he saw Danny, who nodded briefly at him with a compunctious expression.

Sometime around five o'clock, he ended up waiting tables because the staff was short—which was fine. He never minded being a waiter all that much. As long as he got treated like an actual person, he was all right.

By six, the usual dinner crowd meandered into the restaurant. Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore, along with several other nameless faces, smiled almost fondly when Stiles came to their table to take their order. He started with an introduction and the typical, "And I'll be waiting on you today. Can I start you off with a drink?"

No one noted the empty seat, so he just took it as someone was coming late. He almost asked if they wanted to wait for said person to get there, but they already had him jotting down orders.

Honestly, Stiles never understood why waiters and waitresses were required to introduce themselves. It's not like they wore a nametag or anything. Though when he didn't, someone calling out for him would usually pronounce it wrong. He never understood how someone could mispronounce 'Stiles'. His real name, on the other hand, that was a completely different story.

The first part of their dinner started relatively normally. Stiles took their order, brought them drinks, took their food order, brought out the food, and so on. Somehow—and he still doesn't know how, but somehow—he got roped into a conversation about school. From there, it continued on to Jackson.

And how Jackson talked about him a lot. Highly. And his parents were confused as to why they've never met Stiles if they're such good friends.

"It's so nice to put a name to a face, you see," Mrs. Whittemore had said, smiling cloyingly.

Honestly, Stiles almost thought he got a cavity from how good-natured these people were. It was clear that they couldn't be more proud of their son.

A throat cleared from behind him. While Mrs. Whittemore clapped her hands together, her husband greeted, "Speak of the devil!"

A hand clapped onto Stiles' shoulder, quickly followed by a booming hello. "Play nice," Jackson muttered into his ear, giving his shoulder a shake where his hand remained.

Stiles pursed his lips, corners turning up slightly. Once Jackson settled into the empty chair, he took out his notepad and readied his pen. "And for you?" he proposed tersely, raising an eyebrow, almost in a dare.

He scribbled down the order before turning his back and putting his pen behind his ear. As he walked back to the kitchen, the conversation kicked back to laughter and other happy sounds. He couldn't tell if he actually heard his name those couple times or if it was only his imagination. The, "—he's sweet—" couldn't have been a mix-up with anything else. He was sure of it.

Jackson looked relaxed and happy and everything in between when he returned with a glass of water. An easy smile reached his eyes and he looked to be out of breath from laughing too hard. He saluted Stiles with a snort and added, "When do you get off?"

At Stiles flustered reaction, Jackson clapped a hand to his mouth to cover up the roar of laughter. Embarrassed that his own mind immediately went to the gutter, he guffawed, "No—I mean—my break's at seven, so." A quick glance at his watch and he corrected himself. "Now, actually. I'll just go get a—uh—someone to cover me while...yeah."

Jackson laughed.

Then, he surprised Stiles by standing and nodding at his family before saying a quick goodbye. Stiles was being dragged through the kitchen before he could do anything else. The man guiding him by an elbow pointed towards a random waitress and told her what table to take on. Stiles shot her a helpless, apologetic look over his shoulder.

Once they were out in the open air, the blonde cornered him up against a wall, expression suddenly serious. "What did they tell you? What were they saying? How much do you know?" he interrogated. His eyes flickered wildly all over Stiles' face while he stood there, motionless.

Stiles' shoulders slumped when he finally took in everything. They weren't getting along. Jackson was putting on a show for his folks. His blood ran hot at that realization. He stood there for a minute, letting Jackson continue his questioning yet expecting no answers.

In disbelief, he shook his head and nudged Jackson's shoulder on his walk off. If every day this guy was going to ruin his day (almost on the dot of seven o'clock), Stiles wouldn't be able to keep this job for two weeks. It was not possible.

Dealing with Jackson right now wasn't worth the trouble. So, he walked. Jackson followed suit, footsteps nearly in sync with Stiles' own. Eventually, they stopped. Stiles continued.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow, then? Or should I tell my parents that you've suddenly come to hate me after being one of my best friends since we started lacrosse?"

Stiles stopped. Slowly, he turned on his heel. He scrunched up his face in complete and utter confusion. In frustration, he threw up his hands. "Can you please stick with the truth? You know, that you hate me and I hate you? Why did you tell them that? Why do you talk about me? Who talks positively to their family about someone they despise? Who _does_ that, Jackson?"

Ten feet away, Jackson looked stumped. He shrugged while shaking his head to say that he didn't know.

Snorting, Stiles walked towards the dock and waving a hand over his shoulder, dismissing any further conversation. "You let me know when you figure it out," he called, glancing back once before giving into a jog to catch up to his best friend.

He had a bit of whining to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took like a week or longer to update i knew what i wanted to write and everything but never had time or didn't feel like writing at that particular time. thank you guys so much for all the support and everything, it means the world. wow do i say and everything a lot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really quickly scanned this over, so if there are any mistakes, i'll try to fix them in the very near future

Leave it to Jackson. Leave it to Jackson Whittemore to leave Stiles feeling miserable, or so, so confused, by sunset each night. His timing was impeccable; Stiles gave him that.

Yesterday, he had pancakes (just the way he liked them—which, weird) delivered to his suite with a note asking him to meet him for lunch. That ended in a scream-fest and another interrogation. Nobody was shocked at that. Jackson’s voice wasn’t as hard as it normally would’ve been, for some reason unknown to the rest of mankind.

On Wednesday, he was seen with Scott again. The entire time, his best friend looked like a puppy hearing a command for the first time. And Stiles? Stiles was not watching from behind a trash can. He would’ve gotten away with it, too, if it weren’t for Danny eyeing him weirdly from beside Jackson. The numerous gestures he made caught Jackson’s attention, and that ended that.

Now that it was Friday, Stiles was just happy that he got the privilege to leave after the work day was over.

Week one, day 5: annoyed, miserable, so fucking happy to leave.

The kitchen had Cocoa Pebbles today. It made the start of day bearable. Plus, he really missed having chocolate milk to drink after he finished his bowl. He never let his dad buy it anymore, Coca Pebbles, in fear that he’d hide the entire box in his room and snack on it. His dad was eating healthy now, whether he had a say in or not. If Stiles had kids some day, they were surely going to hate him for all the healthy living choices he would make them have.

Over a mouthful, Stiles looked up at Scott, who sat on the metal island, table-thing with an unreadable look. He continued to chew thoughtfully on his gum, only utilizing the left side of his mouth.

Over the next minute, he chewed slower and slower, until he eventually spat out a, “what,” toward his loyal companion. He cocked his head for the fiftieth time this week. Wow, Scott really was exactly like a Labrador Retriever. His best friend was a human version of a dog. He wondered briefly that if he threw a frisbee right then and there, would Scott chase it? Probably.

He repeated himself. Milk dribbled down his chin, so he chased it with his tongue. Scott pulled a face at the chewed bits of cereal following suit. Aimlessly, he tried to mop up under his chin with the back of his hand. If anything, he at least needed to keep his clothing clean—for more than his own dignity. Actually, it was probably to make Scott more comfortable than disgusted.

Regardless, his best friend brushed it off like it was nothing and continued on with his question, finally. “What’s up with you and Jackson?” He asked like it was casual, like if he was to ask if they were hanging out this weekend. He took a quick swig from his water bottle and raised an eyebrow quizzically.

Stiles only shrugged in response, no further answer needed. But his best friend persisted, the puppy dog eyes coming back. Wow did he use a lot of dog comparisons for Scott.

"No, really, man. What’s going on?"

Stiles glared this time, but with no real heat. He hopped off of the counter he was sitting on before calling a quick departure towards Scott. His excuse was the fact that he had to get to his client of the day. Scott let him go, unsurprisingly.

It was inevitable that Scott already knew that his best friend and best foe were at a standoff. He might've been oblivious most of the time, but he knew what to look for when he needed to. He paid special attention to the little things, details and individual words.

It was also inevitable that Stiles would never find out what the fuck Jackson’s problem is.

Most of the staff were off doing preparations for the night, whether it meant shopping for decorations, food, or anything else, making food, or setting up already. Thankfully, Stiles got out of being one of the countless (literally—at least fifty staff members were required to serve tonight) workers to staff the bonfire. Thus, it meant that he could be home by ten.

That was the plan, anyways.

Stiles ended up getting his work done early, considering it was only assisting an older lady and she insisted that he had better things to do than help her with anything. Bored out of his mind, he stumbled around the acres of land before coming across the shore.

The shore was bustling with people, both worker and member alike. Jackson’s mother was pointing wildly when people carrying tiki torches, bouquets, and various other odds and ends, instructing them where to go no doubt.

When she spotted Stiles, a friendly grin flashed her too-white teeth. They were just like Jackson’s: pearly white, blinding, and straighter than a priest. Though, Jackson’s canines were sharper and more defined than his mother’s—adoptive mother, Stiles immediately thought. And since when did he pay so much attention to the blonde’s teeth? He never smiled that often around Stiles, so it’s truly weird that he knows exactly what to picture when he thinks of his smile.

Because Stiles was a good, cordial person, he waved towards Mrs. Whittemore with a smile he hoped didn’t resemble a grimace. Then, she was swept up in another issue and Stiles was left to tend to himself again. Suddenly feeling out of place, he scratched idly at the back of his neck before he turned and walked away.

Predictively, he found himself at a loss. He knew exactly where he was, but had no clue what to do. He didn’t want to be around Scott, for fear of being questioned repetitively—to which questions, he didn't have the answers to; he didn’t want to be around the shore, which was self-explanatory; he really didn’t want to be around the little kids, though he could probably entertain them better than anyone else who is in charge of the little buggers.

Stiles ended up at the pavilion. Once there, he sat on the dark, rotten wood of the table and set his feet on the seat. His shorts were probably getting wood chips all over them but it didn’t seem to be that much of an issue. For a few minutes, he bounced his knee while his forearms rested on his knees, hands clasped together so his figures overlapped.

Briefly, he messed with his phone but put it back in his pocket when he realized the only thing he would do is play some stupid game. As much as he loved his video games, he did not need to be best friends with Kim Kardashian or waste hours on solitaire.

Actually, solitaire wasn’t so bad.

He played solitaire.

He played solitaire until someone rustled beside him and a knee touched his own. Stiles only had to hear a sharp huff of a sigh to know that it was Jackson. He looked to his left to see the guy lifting a curious eyebrow at him, silently asking him why him sitting down disturbed him. In turn, Stiles tried to put 'unless you have an answer to that question from yesterday, leave me alone' into a single glance.

Instead of walking away, Jackson leaned back on his hands until his elbows weren't bent at all. "You're coming tonight, right?" He took a second to pout when Stiles scoffed. "My mom wants you to go. She said something about a scholarship—or internship or something?"

Funnily enough, as much as Stiles despises Jackson (and he does, really), he absolutely adored his mom. Even if he just met her, he can tell that she's the type of woman he would love to have as a wife, best friend or whatever.

Grumbling, Stiles begrudgingly agreed to go. "I'm not talking to you. Here or there," he tacked on, too quickly to have any hint of annoyance. At that, Jackson snorted. Or at least he tried to. It sounded more like a disgruntled old man trying to get out of bed. Stiles blurted that out, aware that he broke the words he just said already.

Laughing, but slightly taken aback, Jackson sat up so he could elbow Stiles. When he glanced up, the blonde was looking at him strangely. He couldn't put a word to describe his expression. It was that: an expression.

"I never said I hated you, you know," he said. He sounded so sincere and honest, but Stiles still searched for a hint of a lie anywhere. Amazingly, there wasn't a single implication of such.

When Jackson started smiling, he knew the jig was up. Immediately, he thought back to all of their fights they've ever had. There were quite a few. But Stiles couldn't think of any where Jackson actually said that he hated him.

One time popped into his head and he almost laughed. Almost. "That one time at lacrosse! That one time I was in your way and you tackled me and you said—no, wait," he hummed in deep thought, tongue poking out between his lips, "Yeah! Yeah, yeah, you have. I know you have."

Jackson only shrugged and shook his head. "Never said it," he repeated. Then, he stretched as he stood up and kicked his foot to point at Stiles. "I'll see you tonight. Be there or highly disappoint me."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "It's be there or be square, Jackson!" he called once he was mostly out of earshot. Of course, mostly. Because when he turned, he snapped and ended with hand guns pointed towards Stiles. Maybe there was a wink in there somewhere. He was too far to be able to tell.

"Better be there, Stilinski!"

Stiles would be lying if he said it didn't make him excited, or overly anxious. Yet, he couldn't wipe off the grin sitting pretty on his lips for at least two hours. And he wondered what in the world Mrs. Whittemore wanted with him because that was odd on so many levels. Not that he was complaining any.

On his way back to his suite, he texted his dad to tell him he'd be a little late getting home tonight, so not to wait up. He didn't get a reply and that was fine. He could catch up with (or get punished by) dad when he got home.

While waiting for time to pass, he idly texted Scott, asking him if he was going tonight and whatnot. Scott replied within the hour, stating that he was going out with Allison tonight and that he didn't need a ride or anything back to his house. The amount of smiley faces in his best friend's texts were always overwhelming. It also made Stiles laugh a lot of the time. Especially if he compared Scott to an excitable puppy.

After shucking his work clothes, he put on a pair of maroon pants and a simple grey tee. By the time he messed with his  hair, brushed his teeth, and paced the expanse of his living quarters dozens of times, it was already nearing sunset.

Following one last cursory glance in the mirror, he walked out the door to go down to the shore, hoping to death that he didn't regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps thank you all for being so nice and commenting and stuff. i'll try to post the next chapter pretty soon, considering the story's really starting to kick up. and hopefully, if it goes as planned, the next few chapters will be a lot longer and yeah.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As per usual, all mistakes are my own and if i see them i will most definitely fix them.

Stiles stood by the canopy the staff set up for a while, just leaning most of his weight onto the plastic poles holding the thing up. He took everything in for a bit, considering picking off another loner—not that he was one; he was invited—to start a conversation. He decided against it in the end.

Already, clumps of teenagers (along with adults, too, somewhere) scattered around the beach, most revolving around the huge fire. He heard bits and pieces of normal, everyday conversation. And he heard snippets from the weird ones. There was always that one sentence he heard that completely wigged him out. Teenagers were weird.

He saw Jackson roaming around, greeting who he wanted and nodding at people who talked to him. He met most guys with what Stiles would consider a bro-hug. Uninterested, Stiles stayed planted in his spot, not bothering to figure out why Jackson even wanted him here, aside from his mother, of course.

While the blonde wandered, Stiles watched him. It should’ve been weird. It really should have. It was. But it wasn’t. Plus, if Jackson felt like he was being watched, he’d look at Stiles and notice him finally.

Not that it mattered. Because even if the boy apologized, even if Jackson _begged_ for forgiveness, Stiles wasn’t sure he could accept it yet. The truth was that he was a prick and what he said was wrong. It was beyond wrong, it was terrible and disrespectful as hell. And the fact that it was over a set of keys was far past ridiculous.

Jackson could be as nice to him as he so pleased. He could make his mom do as many nice things as he possibly could. Though, he would really like to think that Mrs. Whittemore liked Stiles enough to do nice things for him regardless.

The apology had to mean something when he said it—sincere and open and actually _sorry_. Until then, he could ignore the other’s attempts at friendship or whatever this was. A pseudo acquaintance maybe? He wasn’t quite sure.

"Penny for your thoughts?" a voice interrupted, no doubt being Jackson. It held the significant cockiness Jackson always had and the grin he was wearing.

Stiles hummed, his thoughts suddenly fleeting. He turned his head and cocked an eyebrow at Jackson, who leaned against the same pole as him but with a soda in one hand. He took a swig of it and pinned Stiles with a questioning look.

Stiles shrugged, smacked his dry lips together. He planned on saying something at first but thought it wasn’t worth it. Instead he completely turned his body to face Jackson. He leaned on his shoulder, legs crossed at the ankles. For a moment, he simply looked at the guy in front of him.

After a beat or two, he spoke, “What are you getting out of this? You found your keys, I can only assume. Because I honestly don’t have them.”

"So… What? You actually feel guilty for what you said? I thought you were a narcissistic asshole. Since when do you care if you hurt someone you don’t even like? And why am I here?" he pressed, mind swimming with questions.

It all came out in a rush, harsh yet not angry. He really just wanted answers. Some real answers and not the answers he’s been fed for the past four days. “And just because I’m here doesn’t mean that I forgive you,” he tacked on before Jackson could even open his mouth.

Once he was done, he crossed his arms over his chest and squinted his eyes, hoping to signal a response.

"I like you," Jackson argued, somewhat defensive. His posture remained relaxed and loose; not even his jaw was clenched. His eyes flickered with a hint of mystery, like he was keeping something to himself. If anything, he looked to be enjoying himself.

And by the way that Jackson was standing openly, smiling coyly, Stiles figured it was a step up from every other time he confronted him. It was weird, no less.

So he laughed, nervously at best. He replied, “That’s all you got out of that? That I think you don’t like me? Jesus Christ, Jackson. Get your head out of your ass.” He still didn’t sound mad, not one bit. Stiles was shocked to find that he didn’t feel all that angry either.

Jackson glanced around, his eyes stopping after a second or two and landed right on his mom who tapped her wrist where a watch would go. He immediately rolled his head to look sideways at Stiles. “My mom wants to talk to you, I think,” he said, voice monotoned and suddenly bored beyond belief, completely put on, too. Stiles would even go as far as saying that he sounded maybe even a little disappointed (although, he hoped that wasn’t a front for whatever reason).

When he took in the words, a bundle of nerves crunched in Stiles’ stomach. He looked to Mrs. Whittemore before he glanced to Jackson with a look of steel (or absolute terror, but what was the difference). The blonde clapped him on the shoulder before taking a few steps away and turning his back. He waved a hand over his shoulder.

Instead of in his stomach, his heart lurched. If anyone asked, which no one would, he’d say it was on count of no new information being pulled.

Jokingly, and out of habit from his friendship with Scott—long story, Stiles called out, “What no good luck kiss?”

At that, Jackson froze. He stopped walking mid-step and stood stock-still there for a moment. Stiles could practically see the gears turning in the his head. About what, he wasn’t sure, but oh boy were they turning. He shook his head, in what looked like disbelief.

Stiles blinked and suddenly Jackson was right in front of him, his blue-green eyes piercing with worry and curiosity. He scrutinized every possible feature of Stiles’ face, his breath leaving a damp warmth between them.

Stiles’ mouth went dry and his breath hitched, violently enough to start a short patch of hiccups. Leave it to Stiles. “Jackson, I was kidding I—hey,” he started, stammering on every word with hiccups interrupting at various points. He spoke quietly, meekly, afraid of setting the guy off, “Take it easy, man.”

But then hands were cupping his cheeks, thumbs were brushing half circles, and lips tinged with carbonation were on his own. It wasn’t really a kiss at first, just a mush of lips as Stiles continued to talk, or tried to at least.

Somewhere along the line, Jackson’s bottom lip slotted in between his and Stiles’ heart flatlined. There, he finally shut his eyes and returned the kiss fervently but he still remained mildly cautious. A happy little noise jumped from his throat, urging everything to continue, a plead implied. Jackson returned the sound, reverberation tickling Stiles’ lips.

Their teeth clacked against another when they both grinned.

An angle change had Jackson nudging his nose against Stiles’ and he chuffed out a breath.

Everything was so intimate. There were so many mixed feelings being passed between the two that Stiles couldn’t even tell what he was feeling anymore. He settled on confused, eventually.

Bass from the music around them tightened his chest, bringing his aberrant heartbeat to his attention.

Jackson pulled back first, nearly panting. Stiles tried to chase the lips that left, a distressed, indignant sound following suit. It took a second to remember that this was weird. Like, really weird. He gave up when the other placed his forehead against his, eyes showing nothing but hope and nervousness.

Aware that his voice would be wrecked, Stiles cleared his throat. “I was kidding,” he uttered lamely, heart in his throat.

Their noses bumped briefly. Stiles held his breath as he waited for a reply. He saw the disappointment and hurt and everything before any word was said.

Jackson looked up at him, breath continuing to come out in short, quiet pants. “Yeah,” he agreed, tone irresolute on whether to be confused, shocked, disappointed, or apologetic. It was easily a mix of every emotion and then some. He dropped his hand from the back of Stiles’ neck. He cleared his throat as well and took a step back, not looking at anything but the ground.

A cat got ahold of Stiles’ tongue. He wanted Jackson back in his space; he wanted Jackson’s hands back on him, his breath mixing with his own, and a warm buzz everywhere.

"I’ll see you around, then."

Stiles realized he was gaping and promptly closed his mouth. “Jackson,” he called, voice gentle yet loud. He reached a hand out to the retreating figure just to the right of him, “Hey, wait. Jackson, come on.” But he already had his hands stuffed into his jean pockets and shoulders hunched, obviously ready to storm off. Stiles didn’t blame him.

He did just that, not glancing back one, despite having heard Stiles’ numerous shouts.

He felt like an idiot. Also confused as hell, but like an absolute, complete idiot.

He blew out a heavy sigh, raking a hand through his hair. Deciding it wasn’t worth ruining his mood, he walked off to find Jackson’s mother. He took a minute or ten calming himself down, guzzling down an entire bottle of water from the cooler within that time. His mouth perdured its task of staying dryer than a desert. He downed another.

Then, he took off to seek out the woman he was looking for.

She was startled to see him at first, her glass of some unknown alcoholic drink sloshing. She then continued on a story with her colleagues before actually acknowledging him.

It gave him even more time to dwell in the mass confusion of his feelings.

As it turned out, she only needed to ask him to keep a watch out on her son, ”—because he’s been off lately. I don’t know what it is. Have you and him been fighting? Every time I bring you up, it’s like he—well, he mopes. You might want to try flowers. He’s always been a sucker for a good ole romantic gesture, you know?”

The whole conversation cut off from that point, for Stiles, at least. He couldn’t focus on a word she said after that. Something about a dinner or other. He only nodded and hummed in acknowledgement when needed.

When the conversation looked to be finished, hastily, he excused himself. He didn’t notice that he was running until he hopped into his car huffing and puffing. Flowers. Flowers? Fighting? Romantic gestures?

Overwhelmed, he set his head on his steering wheel, eliciting a short burst from the horn. He jumped.

After that, he did the only thing he could think of; he called Scott. His best friend picked up after three rings, a sighed, “What, Stiles?” coming through the phone.

Practically in hysterics, he explained everything way too fast and with too many jumbled words.

Again, Scott sighed on the other line. He could picture Scott stretched with his arms far above him, phone between his shoulder and cheek, before ending in a hunched position on his computer chair.

Thankfully, he wasn’t with his girlfriend yet, although Stiles wouldn’t mind the second opinion. “He walked off…,” he finally replied, voice sounding incredulous, “and his mom told you to buy him flowers?”

"I know, it’s weird and sounds crazy, but, man, I’m telling the truth. He, like, he—he just—do you think a gift card could work? Like, instead of the flowers. I don’t think Jackson would like flowers," he stated, eyes narrowing at a bug crawling across his windshield.

Scott laughed. Stiles quirked up a half-smile at that. “What? Like a ‘You-kissed-me-but-I-don’t-like-you-so-here’s-a-gift-card’ thing? No, Stiles. No, I don’t think a gift card would work.”

His expression soured, ready to defend the part about him not liking Jackson, though he wasn’t quite sure why. He stopped himself by holding his breath. He doesn’t like Jackson. Didn’t. Doesn’t? Didn’t? Man, he was confused.

"But, who kisses someone they hate? And why me? Jackson hates everybody. Plus, isn’t he like straight or something? Really, though; Jackson Whittemore is a hopeless romantic. Who knew. Wait—did—Scott?"

Scott hummed.

"You were talking to Jackson the other day."

Stiles heard shuffling and rustling from the speaker followed by a quick, “Nope.”

Incredulous, Stiles narrowed his eyes once more. “Yes, you were. I saw you leaving the restaurant with your tail between your legs. What were you talking about?”

Scott coughed, a wet sound accompanying it. Stiles raised an eyebrow, knowing that Scott must’ve choked on a drink or something. “I was helping him find his car keys. Said he’d pay me to retrace his steps,” he answered hoarsely, “Didn’t want to get you involved.”

This time, Stiles hummed. He smelled bullshit, but said nothing. The line was silent for a full minute, until one of them mentioned having something to do and that they’d talk to the other soon.

Even more baffled than before, Stiles took the keys out of the ignition and clambered out of the Jeep. He checked the time on his phone, tapped his fingers on his leg a few times, and decided he could clock out for the day.

He took his time bagging his dirty laundry back at his room.

Only to waste time, he cleaned up a little, making it at least a smidgen more presentable. Once again, he checked the time. Then, he gathered his belongings he was taking back with him and headed out to the Jeep again.

Though the drive home was only a mere fifteen minutes, it was restless. Not that it normally wasn’t. Stiles drummed his fingers on the wheel most of the time, lost in his thoughts at other times. When he made it home, he dragged everything to the house, said a quick goodnight to his dad lounging out on the couch, and went straight to bed. It wasn’t all that late—only ten o’clock—but he was exhausted.

Regardless of whether or not he was tired, Stiles knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be sleeping, his mind was far too occupied for that.

He continued on with his normal bedtime routine and jumped into bed, eager to put everything he needed to think about for tomorrow. He wiped a hand down his face, groaned as loudly as he could without disturbing his dad, and turned until he was in the middle of his bed. After finally settling down as much as he could, he stared at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes and ten more hours, waiting for sleep to overcome him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that happened and i'm planning on posting the next chapter very, very soon!! c:


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles is sure his dad woke him up to say goodbye when he left to go to down to the station. He’s so sure of it. But then again, it could have very well been a dream considering he woke up at three in the afternoon to the sound of elephant—possibly plural—feet pounding up the steps.

His bedroom door swung open and he jumped, only to settle back into his nest of blanket and pillows.

"Stiles!" Scott repeated for the fifth times, Stiles realized, "Stiles.” Stress seeped through his name, loud breaths surrounding his calls.

Snuffling, Stiles squirmed until his body was facing away from the door, where a probably disheveled version of his best friend stood. His vision fuzzed out for a minute when he opened his eyes. To keep himself awake, he focused on some random point on the wall.

Scott reiterated himself with a scoff, obviously not in the mood for patience.

Two minutes passed. Stiles counted. The huffing and puffing wouldn’t quit.

Annoyed, he forced a yawn before sitting up. He finally gave up on sleep, albeit reluctantly, and wiped at the drool at the edge of his mouth. Morning breath stuck to his skin. Noisily, he cringed. After smacking his lips together in distaste, he glanced over to the door and screwed his eyes up to look at Scott. “What?” he eventually asked, the ending consonant too harsh to sound nonchalant.

Scott only raised his eyebrows, chest heaving. Stiles mirrored the expression, still only half awake.

“‘S’going on?” he slurred, wiping his mouth on his shoulder. It sounded more like he was talking over a mouthful of food. Sometimes he wondered how Scott understood half the things he said.

He blinked slowly and stretched until his back cracked. Scott still stood, not saying a word yet looking as if his thoughts were moving around in his head a mile per minute. He looked oddly out of breath.

At the defeated (and somewhat relieved) sigh, Stiles tensed. His best friend set his hands on his knees and hunched over more. And Stiles laughed, because Scott probably ran here for whatever reason he had. The image of Scott on the street, inhaler in his mouth, running like a crazed maniac with arms flailing popped into his head. He’d stop every so often, inhaling hard enough to make him feel lightheaded. As hilarious as it looked in his mind, it was also terrifying as hell to watch in person. Stiles liked hypothetical Scott than the actual Scott running here. Actual Scott could die from this.

Sobered, he asked Scott if he was okay. He nodded, which was a great, great sign. Maybe he only ran up the stairs. Stiles could live with that. “Jackson—he—hold on,” he panted, feeling around his pockets for something. His phone clattered to the floor before he could catch it. Both scrambled to get to it first. Scott did because, well, it’s his phone. But Stiles? Stiles did because he’s an asshole.

Triumphant, and after a short wrestling—read: sprawling on the floor in search of the phone—match, Stiles held up the phone high above his head in a fist. Scott tackled him onto the mattress, their laughter coming out easily. This happened for a few more minutes. The phone passed between them countless times and each time, the air was filled with cheers and gibes. And jumper cables—lots and lots of jumper cables to the spot right under their ribs.

Breathless once again, the two flopped onto Stiles’ bed, all loose-limbed and heavy with exertion.

"Dude."

Stiles hummed, a weightless, happy feeling everywhere. He cocked his head to glance at Scott whose eyes were bugged out. He was scrolling through some sort of feed on his phone, probably Twitter.

Scott jostled Stiles, shoulder brushing against the other’s in a meaningful manner. “You check Twitter or Snapchat or anything in the past couple days?” he then asked, a carefully inquisitive expression plastered on his face.

Stiles nodded, reaching blindly across the bed to find his bedside table, where his phone sat charging. He had a couple notifications here and there, dozens of missed calls and texts from “Beam Me Up, Scotty” all saying something or other about social media.

He grew nervous, a pit twisting in his stomach. He eyed Scott, a silent question in his eyes. His thumb tapped on the little, light blue app and he swallowed his fear, hoping and hoping that it wouldn’t be that bad.

The usual indirect tweets were all he saw when he scrolled through the feed. He always felt like those were directed at him, even though he didn’t ever talk to half the people he followed. He always assumed it was an anxiety thing.

Emotionally constipated were the words Stiles would use to describe all of the teenagers in his high school. Even some of the teachers. Most of them used social media to get attention. Now, Stiles did the same thing but at least he could acknowledge it. His whining (and sarcastic one-liners) must mean something, considering the amount of followers he has on various sites. A follower count didn’t matter to him, really. It did boost some self-esteem, though. No harm, no foul.

He stopped looking when he noticed Scott fidgeting in his peripherals. “And I’m supposed to notice that…,” he dragged on, scrunching up his nose in concentration, “Danny and his boyfriend are cute? What? Isaac Lahey joined the lacrosse team? Jackson is done with—hey, wait—that’s not fair. That’s—is that?” He didn’t have to finish his question to know the answer. Of course it was about him.

Desperate to correct any wrong, he started to scramble, looking around the room for a pair of socks, jeans, anything he could put on and not look like an idiot. Scott stayed put, watching Stiles with an aura of concern wafting off him. He patted the spot beside him and gestured openly at the Snapchat he had pulled up.

A look of pity washed over his best friend’s face. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was for him or for Danny, considering that’s whose username he had up on the recent updates page. Maybe even Jackson.

Reluctant at best, Stiles sat next to Scott. “Scott,” he said, a wavering dip in his voice. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was of.

Scott held his thumb on the screen and a video came to life.

What Stiles could only assume as Danny’s hand came to knock on a wooden door, phone shaking somewhat. “Jackson? Dude, you okay?” he asked, uneasy.

Danny was always someone who could take a glance at you from across the room and know something was wrong. He didn’t know the reason most of the time, but his concern was unceasingly comforting.

A thud resounded from inside the room on the other side of the door, followed by loud obscenities.

The caption said something about fearing for his life. It was, no doubt, in a sarcastic, good manner but it still let everyone know that Jackson Whittemore was having a crisis and to stay clear of the oncoming storm.

The clip cut off when Danny started to shout again, asking more questions. Stiles became even more restless, eliciting a curtailed, uncomfortable laugh.

Then, he started to think. He started to think about how stupid this was, and how Jackson always hated him. He did. He absolutely, one hundred percent despised Stiles.

And he’s the one who kissed Stiles. If anything, Stiles should be the one having a cow. He should be the one throwing things and not talking to anyone because he can’t let a string of words come out of his mouth without Jackson forcing himself into his thoughts. Like a plague, Jackson was a plague.

It wasn’t fair that the guy who grabbed him by the face and kissed him like it was the only thing he ever wanted to do (no innuendo intended), ever, got to have a freak out. That was Stiles’ job. He stated as such, arms folded across his chest and an angry pout turning down his mouth.

"I didn’t even say no! He kissed me, I may or may not have kissed him, I said I was joking when I suggested it, and he stormed off!" Stiles explained to the ceiling with a fed up, frustrated to all hell groan.

"This is so stupid," he added, figuring that was the gist of everything that has happened in the past between them. He pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment.

For the next minute, he spun his phone between his thumb and forefinger as he thought out loud some more. Because let’s be real here, Jackson had no right to play the heartbroken, confused part. Scott agreed, notwithstanding his befuddlement.

A thought popped into his head. Stiles spun on his heel, quickly enough to disorient himself for a split second, and faced Scott. “You have to talk to him,” he tried to command. It sounded more like he was begging on his knees. He went on, “You have to tell him that it couldn’t work, we’re too different and I like—I like—someone else! Yeah, yeah, I like that…person you know of.”

"No, you don’t." Scott’s eyebrows furrowed. The only other person he’d ever talked about in excruciating detail was Lydia Martin, and he’s long past graveling at her feet, for now at least.

"Sure I do," Stiles protested, gesturing wildly at the point of his plan, whatever that was.

"You like Jackson."

"Well, yeah—no. No, no no. First off, _no_. No. I do not."

Scott harrumphed, eyes rolling. Afterwards, his bore his eyes at Stiles, expecting an explanation, or something. When none came, he stood up to brush his palms against his jean clad thighs. He followed Stiles pacing to stop him, turn him around by the shoulders, and hold him there. One glance at Stiles’ wild, confused, defensive expression and Scott was sold.

"Yeah, you do."

Stiles all but punched him. The last thing he needed were feelings for Jackson. The next to last thing he needed was for Scott to think he liked Jackson. Jackson. As if. He’d rather burn his tongue every second of the day than like Jackson.

He did find him attractive, though. In relative terms, of course, because everyone knew Jackson Whittemore was attractive. And if his lips were rough and firm and soft and velvety all at once, then who cares, right? It’s not like Stiles wanted his warm hands back on his jaw, or for someone to look at him like he was a piece of expensive China to be handled with care.

He chalked it up to being lonely. After all, when was the last time someone kissed him like that? Or the last time someone kissed him at all? He’s pretty sure his last kiss was somewhere in middle school for a game of Spin the Bottle. She wasn’t even that good, he vaguely remembered.

He zoned back into the world with Scott’s worried eyes worrying and his hands waving in front of his face in a joking manner, presumably. He coughed out a bark of a laugh and apologized. Scott raised an eyebrow in silent question.

"I’m just lonely. It’s been a while," he concluded, avoiding his best friend’s eyes. He was about to say how Scott knew how it was, but he didn’t. Not since Allison came in. Again, he adored her more than the world itself, he really did, but he got lonely too and Scott was his first.

His best friend nodded pointedly and shrugged. “Maybe Jackson’s lonely, too.”

It sent Stiles’ head reeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right okay i want to formally apologize for not posting in a while. i had homecoming last weekend and a crazy, crazy, crazy week. ((ps, sorry for not having much action here it's just a filler and i promise jackson will be in it more the more their relationship comes to be, thank yo ufor being patient uwu))


	7. Chapter 7

On Monday morning, Stiles counted the days, the hours, and the minutes of how much longer he had to be at the country club. An uptick kicked off his heart when he thought about it. For whatever reason, it no longer seemed like the best thing for him. In another way, it sounded like the absolute best.

Needless to say, he spent the entire weekend staring at a wall, or a TV screen, or his computer. He contemplated Jackson, Jackson’s actions, his words, Jackson again, and most of all, what the kiss meant. Because what did that even mean?

He concluded the following: Jackson was hot, Stiles was an idiot, and so was Jackson. There was no way any of this would ever work out, considering their past and especially the most recent past, and it was stupid. Also, Jackson didn't like him and he didn't like Jackson. Were they both suddenly forgetting that?

But stupid was his forte, and for some reason, the thought of Jackson being close to him made his breath catch somewhere in his chest.

He didn’t see Jackson on Monday.

And he didn’t see Jackson on Tuesday.

He was stewing hopelessly in his own pot of negative, regretful emotions by Wednesday.

 Scott pitied him enough to go look for Jackson.

An hour passed and Scott sent a message to Stiles with the equivalent of a shrug. Nothing.

Finally, he was fed up enough to call Danny on his lunch break, who gave him about as much information as a person who just got their wisdom teeth pulled.

Glancing at his phone for the time, he shrugged off a sense of worry. Jackson was a big boy, he could handle himself and his feelings. If Stiles could, so could he.

That didn't mean he wasn't going to hound Jackson with questions when he came out of hiding.

Honestly, the fact that he was even looking for Jackson evoked a feeling he hadn’t noticed before—or tried not to notice.

He cared for the blonde, a lot actually. Not that it meant that he wanted to be in a relationship with him.

They’d be too dysfunctional, anyway. Stiles would constantly press Jackson’s buttons to get his jaw to twitch in anger or frustration (because, let’s face it, it’s more than attractive). And Jackson would probably pin Stiles against a wall any time he said anything out of turn. Vicious, is what everything they’d do would be. It would be like a constant cage match, in which Stiles loses.

Of course, there would be upsides. Stiles has seen what the other was like with his past girlfriends. He always paid them the right amount of attention and kept them happy, it seemed. There were days around holidays where Jackson would bring in bouquets of chocolates or flowers for his love and lavish said person all day. It was cute and sweet.

However, he wasn't thinking about it, the lovey-dovey stuff. Like how Jackson obviously, and heedlessly, throws every bit of emotion he possibly can into every kiss. Or how he'd grow quiet over a serious conversation and listen attentively. Or maybe he'd never leave Stiles alone after a fight, apologize profusely and murmur sweet nothings through the closed door between them.

Or how he really, really needed to find Jackson (or get as far away as possible) to clear his head. Somehow, getting closer sounded more pleasant than never feeling warm, firm lips against his again. Quite frankly, he liked aggressively having someone like him. If Jackson liked him in that way, cool. He could absolutely handle that.

He wasn't too sure if he could handle having those feelings himself, though. That was his problem.

Simply put, Stiles spent the rest of the day in his own mind, constantly being pulled by his ear by the elderly man he was to tend to that day.

Thursday started out okay. By okay, that meant having stale (but still good) Lucky Charms thanks to somebody in the kitchen leaving the bag open—probably Stiles—and moping around his job of the day.

By the end of the work day, Stiles was convinced he aged twenty years. Still hearing nothing from anybody about Jackson, he was agitated.

Ten minutes.

 It took him ten minutes to track Jackson down. He checked everywhere until finally coming to the conclusion that he was in his cabin. Yes, cabin. His family's cabin, really, but it was partially his.

The sun was down so most of the lights, if anyone was in there, should have been on. Stiles immediately counted three, which gave him enough probable cause. His dad was the sheriff, he knew these things. Who cared if it was a bit out of context?

If anyone asked, he knocked first. He did. Once. After that, he barged in with fury and funnily enough, disappointment on the tip of his tongue. "Jackson?"

The rustling he heard from down a hallway in one of the rooms was promising yet nobody came. He called again, putting more heat and desperation into it.

When a light in the hallway a little ways away  flicked on, he tried again, adding a simple, "I need to talk to you." It sounded softer than what he'd originally planned. He wanted his frustration radiated for miles so Jackson could taste it. He didn't want to be defenseless in his crying out.

"For crying out loud," Jackson muttered when he stepped out of the shadows. His hair was almost flat against his forehead, little tuffs of hair sticking up in random places. A pair of light grey sweatpants hugged his lower half loosely while a rather wrinkly dark graphic tee with the periodic table on it. It read, "I wear this shirt periodically." Stiles half-laughed and cocked his head when Jackson crossed his arms.

"Christmas present," he said lowly, eyes cast towards the ground. Vague as it was, Stiles nodded slowly. Questioning Jackson Whittemore about his fashion choices wasn't his reason for being there.

So, he decided to jump right over the bush rather than beat around it. He cleared his throat and shrugged his shoulders. "I'm here for one more day, Jackson," he started, only cutting himself off to let out a sigh through his nose and scratch at it.

"I haven't seen you since I saw you last. You know when that was? When you kissed me," he continued, "And you know what else? My friends—your best friend, damn it—have been looking for you since yesterday, probably longer. What the fuck is wrong with you? What? Do you want me to go after you kissed me like that?" He threw up his arms in exasperation, voice carrying easily across the open room.

Throughout his little tirade, he stepped closer to the boy across the room, who stuck his chin up and avoided all eye contact. His teeth worked on chewing on his cheek and his knee bounced while he leaned up against the wall behind him. He cut through the tense silence with a cough, "I don't want you to go."

His eyes flickered to Stiles for a moment before cutting away again, his focus on the ground once again. Jackson pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and swiped a hand down that side of his face, like his confession put him through too much.

Stiles shrugged, shaking his head repeatedly in short motions.

He blinked blankly at Jackson for a moment, screwing up his eyes after.

"Then act like it!" he seethed, gesturing wildly. "Because I'm not going to come running back here after tomorrow if you let me walk out that door without resolving any of this."

Jackson wore the look of a deer in headlights for what seemed like hours, until it twisted into something fiercer and void of the cowardice posture and expression of before. "I don't have time for this." And with that, he turned his back and started to stalk down the hall towards the room he was in before Stiles barged in.

Stiles huffed out a long string of profanities, dissatisfaction bubbling his blood.  He was done being pushed around, or pushed out like he didn't deserve to know anything. He waited a moment, hands held out with his fingers slightly bent. After a couple seconds, he dropped his hands and glared at the back of Jackson's head.

"So that's it, then? Wow. Nice. What was I expecting, huh? That you were going to act like a normal human being about this? Way to prove my point, Jackson. You never fail to confused or disappoint me. This time, you managed both. Good job, buddy. Thanks for wasting my time thinking that you wanted to have something with me. Joke's on me, huh?"

"I knew this was a waste of time," he then muttered to himself, loud enough for Jackson to hear if he wanted.

Jackson stopped, just like the other night. He ran a hand through his hair and stretched his hands far above his head. He turned on his heel to face Stiles, although his face was half shadowed from the hallway. "Listen, I'm not going to tell you if I want you here or not, because it's really up to you. But if I were to tell you, I'd tell you that I'm not good at feelings or—feelings about you, okay? I wanted to kiss you. I keep wanting to kiss you," he admitted, crisp and clear and _honest_.  

"And right now? I'm watching a marathon of the absolute worst movies I could think of and some company sounds great," he laughed, humorlessly and dry, "but I'm not asking you to stay."

They stood those few feet away from each other for two full minutes, anxious and scared shitless but hopeful nonetheless. Stiles' composure cracked first and a goofy sort of smile spread across his lips. "Okay," he finally said, ducking his head while he swung his legs happily to get to Jackson.

Jackson watched him with amusement.

When their feet met on the floorboards, Stiles met Jackson's eyes. "This doesn't fix anything, nor does it mean that I will ever be your boyfriend or whatever this is," he clarified, a stern facade masking his sudden giddiness.

And Jackson laughed, pecked Stiles' cheek, and led him down the corridor with an arm slung lazily around Stiles' waist, "I know, but it's a start."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i make so many jokes in my writing that only i notice probably but yeah updates are a thing and this is one of those things yeah i wrote this in like the past hour so if there are mistakes and stuff, my bad, i'll try to fix it, blah blah blah


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit, sorry for the wait.

Stiles was a grinning mess the next morning, bringing cautious glances in his direction. It made sense considering for the better part of the past week and a half he had been nothing but a scowling, pissed off teenager.

Scott, unsurprisingly, was the first to question his mood swing. Stiles, also unsurprisingly, brushed off the questions with a shrug and a hopefully reassuring smile.

Over breakfast, the two of them discussed the newest drama and how Scott’s date with his girlfriend went the other day. Then, it turned to Allison and Allison and Allison’s new haircut, and how cute her smile and everything Allison. But Stiles listened like the best friend that he was; he even got a few nice comments in, too.

A couple minutes passed where only the sounds of the kitchen could be heard, no words needed. Still, Stiles was bubbling happily in his usual spot on the counter.

If it were anybody else, he’s pretty sure Scott would kindly ask them to stop.

He was dying to tell Scott everything—from the fight to when he woke up in the morning with Jackson snoring soundly on the floor to when Jackson stopped him halfway out the door to ask him to come back after his shift was over.

Stiles could see it—Scott’s no doubt imposing question of the day—on his tongue the entire morning, so he finally asked what it was and to just spit it out already.

After a little bit, and while they took care of the dishes they both used, Scott finally posed what was really on his mind. He cleared his throat quietly, clasped his hands together and set them on the counter, and leaned over to get a better look at his best friend. Stiles grew suddenly nervous, although he had absolutely nothing to hide.

"Did you," he started, pausing to chew on his wording some more, "you know, sleep with him? I heard you only left this morning and that’s not really like…you." His expression was carefully picked, concerned and somewhat uninterested.

Stiles barked out a harsh, inexplicably defensive laugh upon hearing the last part. To give himself more time to think, he stretched his arms over his head and forced out a yawn. “You know I don’t kiss and tell,” he explained dubiously.

Once he thought more, he tacked on, “You heard that I left this morning? From who?” He was fully aware of the becoming scowl pulling on the corners of his lips and did nothing to stop it. He would’ve thought better of Jackson than to brag to the entire country club that he spent the night with Stiles.

And they didn’t even do anything which only made matters worse. He knew rumors spread in terrible, horribly fast ways.

His eyes shifted from Scott to his girlfriend approaching with a carefree smile. She threw her arms around Scott’s shoulder and kissed his cheek, making Scott grin from ear to ear.

"From who, what?" Allison then proceeded after another peck (this time on the lips). Her smile never faltered. Her dimples dipped profoundly, adding a sheen of felicity around them, which in one way or another she consistently does.

And as per usual, Scott was like putty in her hands. The one corner of his mouth drooped while the other sat high, like his entire world was flipped upside down when she walked into his life—in a very good way.

Stiles looked at the two admire each other quietly, waiting for his puppy to snap out of it. He half expected a tail to pop out and start thumping and waving. It was sickeningly adorable in all honesty.

They stopped ogling when he cleared his throat to get their attention. Scott had a quick moment of confusion before the, “Oh! Right.” He laughed, sparing a look towards Stiles, almost apologetically though he completely understood how lost he could get with her around. He was like that once upon a time, with some crush here and there throughout middle school and the beginnings of high school.

When Allison quirked an eyebrow, Scott got on with it, “I was just telling Stiles how you saw him leave Jackson’s cabin this morning.” They shared a couple different looks, obviously having a conversation or fight with their eyes.

In the meantime, Stiles pulled his phone out of his pocket as a distraction. A text from Jackson, though he's not sure when he got Jackson's number, was on the screen.

Apparently, Jackson also heard of their escapade in the bedroom last night. He said he'd try to stop the rumors and reminded Stiles about stopping back over later. And there may have been a compliment or two with smiley faces tagged onto the ends.

In a way, it was weird to text Jackson. It was weird to think about kissing Jackson, too. It was even weirder for people to think that they spent the night together, humping like rabbits. But then again, opposites attract, right?

Someone called his name and he snapped out of staring, probably vacantly, at his darkened phone screen. Towards Allison and Scott, he shot a  toothy, apologetic smile.

Allison then went on to explain the long list of people who told her his whereabouts this morning. She wasn't even sure where the line started or stopped. All everyone knew was that word got around fast.

It took three seconds for Stiles to forgive her. As he's said before, he loves Allison; she's like the sister he never had.

"Look, even if Jackson and I did have sex—which we did not. We didn't, Scott, calm down. Scott, seriously. Dude, you know I don't put it out on the first date. No—don't give me that look. I have been on plenty of first dates! Allison," Stiles whined, slumping back against the counter. Somewhere during his speech, he began to walk around the table the two of them were sitting on. He was positive that his voice raised enough for the entire staff to hear him, but it wasn't that big of a deal.

Allison pulled her lips into her mouth and bit down on them, trying to conceal a smile. In addition, she hid her face by pressing it to her boyfriend's shoulder, who laughed with his whole heart at Stiles' outbursts. "I hate both of you," he cried, yet fondness covered any negative tone in his voice.

"And as much as I love you both, and would love to hang around forever, we all have some work to do. Good luck with your boyfriend, Stiles," Allison replied while running a hand through her hair. Her haircut did look nice. He'd have to tell her sometime, if he ever remembered to.

Her and Scott took off to head down to the pool for early lessons while Stiles roamed the golf course in search of his client.

Give or take eight hours and Stiles was home free for the night. Throughout the day, he talked to Jackson via texts. Easily put, he barely stopped smiling the entire day.

After changing into a comfortable tee shirt and a pair of shorts, he wandered over to the cabin. Once he got there, he knocked several times on the door. In that time, he looked around briefly to take in his surroundings. Not many people were out considering the sun was already down. Consciously, Stiles thought about how maybe this time there wouldn't be any more rumors to spread. He was far past relieved.

The door opened and Jackson beamed at him, ushering him in with a simple gesture. His hair was damp from just getting out of the shower and was pushed back off his forehead. "You're early, sorry," he explained, indicating his looks. Stiles thought he looked fine and he told Jackson as such. He got a quirk of the lips in return.

"Right," the other boy started, nodding curtly, "follow me." He waved over his shoulder to show Stiles the general direction they would be heading, though it was sort of pointless considering he was headed that way.

The two ended up in the kitchen, where Stiles was told to sit. He thought about throwing a sarcastic retort at Jackson, but looking at the nervous look on the blonde's face, he sat and rolled his eyes.

"You can stop freaking out now," he commented, a short laugh accompanying it. Jackson nodded and held up a finger before turning his back on Stiles.

He rustled around for a bit with something on the counter, relaxed his muscles after a minute of just standing there, and turned back to Stiles with a cake in his hands.

It sat on a cooling rack with mostly white icing coating every visible part of it. It was an actual mess, and at least now Stiles knew why Jackson had to shower. He probably ended up getting so much icing in his hair, the poor kid.

Something was written in blue gel icing and Stiles had to squint and tilt his head in multiple directions to be able to read it. It said, "Sorry I Was A Dick and I Don't Want You To Leave, So Please Reconsider, and Also," and cut off at the bottom of the cake. So, he pursed his lips, glanced up at Jackson and then back to the cake.

"Well, that ended abruptly," he said, unsure of what else he could.

He didn't notice until Jackson's hand covered his that his fingers were tapping loudly against the table. Jackson let out a breath that he seemed to be holding when he crouched next to Stiles. He ducked his head and pulled out a piece of folded paper from his back pocket.

Stiles heart skidded to a stop when the blonde's smile fell flat and he opened his mouth to talk. Still unsure of himself, he unfolded the paper and cleared his throat. He moiled over his words for a short while, anxiety passing between his eyes and jittery hands.

As Stiles watched, it only him more and more nervous. He didn't like making other people uncomfortable or feel anything bad. He didn't like giving others grief or anxiety or anything like it.

They both sat in their fretfulness for a couple more minutes until Jackson coughed to start reading what he wrote.

"It wasn't right of me to say that about your mom. I'm really sorry, and it won't happen again, I swear. Not to give excuses or anything, but, you know how I get sometimes. All hot-headed and shit," he read, eyes flickering to Stiles' expression every once in a while.

He took his time to get on with the rest. He seemed to read over it three more times silently before crinkling the paper and aiming it towards the waste basket in the far corner. "Look, Stiles. I never meant to hurt you. Wait, no, in that moment I probably did. People make mistakes, okay? I make a lot of them. Freaking out on you was one of them, and kissing you was not," he paused, closing his eyes and squeezing Stiles hand where if still sat under his. "I'm sorry for whatever horrible things I've said or done to you. I really am. And I want nothing more than a second chance. I think I proved my point yesterday and this morning. And hopefully now."

He continued, "I like you a lot more than I ever expected to and I'm not sure when it started up but I'm not sure I want it to stop either. So, if you would be the most amazing person in the world, have some apology cake with me?"

Stiles nodded when it seemed necessary, though his head was still swimming. A heart spoken apology was what he wanted, wasn't it? He simply looked at Jackson for a minute, just as confused as he was the other day.

He liked Jackson, he knew that now. He liked hanging out with Jackson. He liked kissing Jackson, maybe more than he ever thought—not that he thought about it at all before last week. He didn't like holding grudges, never did.

He mulled over the pros and cons in as little time as he could. Finally, he decided what he wanted to do. "I guess I could have some cake."

Stiles has never seen a look of pure astonishment like that in his life.

"But first," he laughed, and fell silent when Jackson's face grew serious again with doubt, "I have to ask where you got it."

Once more, Jackson ducked his head and shrugged, almost bashfully. "I made it, everywhere I called said they would never write anything like that on a cake," he admitted, unabashed humor lacing his nearly dead-serious tone.

And Stiles choked on his snort when he replied, "You could've asked for a plain cake and written on it yourself, Jackson. Oh my god!"

Jackson then proceeded to have a stunned look on his face, that quickly turned into a burst of laughter. He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand and muttered how stupid he was. After that, he got plates and everything else they'd need to eat the masterpiece of a mess he made.

He got Stiles a piece first and to be honest, Stiles was reluctant. He heard horror stories of rich people who are used to being catered to baking. And they never ended up with a happy ending. But that didn't mean he wasn't going to dig in regardless.

The minute it hit his tongue, Stiles face screwed up. He thought maybe, just maybe, if he chewed it would taste better, but the longer he chewed and kept that little bit of cake in his mouth, the worse it got.

Eventually, he just spat it out onto the plate. He didn't have time to think about his dignity or how gross it must've looked to Jackson. He really needed the taste out of his mouth and fast. That was the quickest way.

"You trying to kill me?" he asked after a minute, and three glasses of tap water. "God, Jackson, that was bad."

Jackson had the audacity to try it for himself. He picked up the fork Stiles was using and pulled off a piece. His conclusion seemed to be the same considering he didn't even have to chew it to spit it out. "Okay, bad idea. Very, very bad idea," he commented after washing his mouth out.

"How about I just order some cake from the kitchen and we can pretend I can bake?"

"Yeah, sounds like a plan. But why the hell was it salty?" Stiles replied, almost tempted to wipe his tongue on the back of his hand to get the taste out of his mouth. Jackson only shrugged, his eyes widening by tenfold. He looked just as confused and disgusted as Stiles could only assume he looked.

They ended up spending two hours in the kitchen, eating about twenty molten lava cakes and enjoying the fact that they were actually made correctly.

And Stiles made a mental note that if this continued, he was never letting Jackson cook or bake or anything of the sort for him again. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i have written this chapter at least 7 different times and each time i'm not very happy with the results bc idk i just don't like my writing on this chapter for whatever reason. that and the fact that i have been crazy, crazy, crazy busy with school and my social life is why i have not posted in like over two weeks, i'm sorry. thank you for sticking around and reading and stuff. reading your comments always makes my day so thank you very much, again


	9. Chapter 9

So his dad was rightfully pissed that he didn’t come home that weekend. But it gave his dad time to sneak in junk food, so Stiles is sure that it’s actually fine. Besides, he had fun and isn’t that what his summer is meant to be?

In his defense, he did try to go home, but after the whole lava cake fiasco, his stomach was way too full and Jackson’s eyes got all droopy and tired. His lips got pouty and sad when Stiles said he should get going and Stiles is no match to a face like that. 

He’s only a man, dammit.

So he stuck around and Jackson pulled him back to the cabin to watch—read: sleep through— another movie. And the next morning, there were his favorite pancakes sitting on the kitchen counter. He couldn’t say no to that, either. 

And by the time he made it back to his own quarters, he was so exhausted from his week that he conked out on a 13-hour nap, and then went back to sleep in until noon on Sunday. At that point, there was no real reason to go home. Or that’s what he told himself, anyways. 

Come Monday and he was pleased to hear that he had his job back. Once in the kitchen in the morning, he saluted Scott, sent a wink towards Allison, and glanced at the schedule over Jackie’s shoulder—wait-staff: elsewhere if needed. 

The shift went by as quickly as a nine hour shift can, with various interruptions dispersed. First, there was a phone call where Scott asked him repeatedly if he was sure that him and Jackson didn’t sleep together—”Because you’re acting too mellow and I know your post-orgasm high lasts two days, Stiles”. Then it was the simple smiley-face emoji that was sent to his phone, that he acted accordingly to (by running into the back and giggling to himself). And then Jackson’s family, Jackson included, eating around 3:00. 

Sadly, Stiles wasn’t their waiter but he did get his wrist tugged on gently by Mrs. Whittemore, inviting him to have dinner with them sometime, a knowing smile on her lips and a soft, happy glint to her eyes. 

On his break, Jackson sneaks back to kiss him, the taste of red wine and giddiness dancing on his lips. There’s a slow smile that creeps in as he cups Stiles’ neck and leans his body forward enough to trap Stiles against the metal counter. It’s cold and startles him but Jackson’s body is hot enough to keep him from getting chills.

Well, no, he gets chills for another reason entirely separate than temperature, because Jackson scratches lightly against the back of his neck as he pulls Stiles closer and opens his mouth to nip at his bottom lip so lightly that Stiles barely feels it. He truly can’t help the whine that tumbles out between them when Jackson’s other hand grabs at his hip, his thumb practically kneading at the skin that peeps out from under his polo where it’s hiked up.

He sets his one hand on Jackson’s chest, curling against his shirt, and the other wraps around his bicep. Stiles’ head swims, his heart stutters, and he feels his cheeks burn from embarrassment at his sounds, his lack of experience, and the feeling that anybody could walk into the kitchen at any time. 

So, of course, someone did, clearing their throat as they step past to grab a bus tub. Jackson chuckles in that lowly, quiet way he does (and how does Stiles know that he does?) when Stiles jumps and yelps. His eyes widen and his mouth gapes and he feels caught out, but he knows his coworkers are probably pleased he’s at least getting some. Maybe. 

Rather than pulling back, Jackson crowds him more, like he’s trying to hide him away, and Stiles ducks his head to hide it in Jackson’s neck, face beet red. “Oh, God,” he mumbles, “This is going to get around faster than the rumor that I’m sleeping with you.”

He can practically hear Jackson raise his eyebrows at that, feels a smirk coming across his lips. He breathed in sharp and hard, like he was going to say something but cut himself off, like he knew it was crossing a line too early in their relationship. 

Relationship. Huh.

And if that wasn’t a bucket of cold water right down his back. Before he knew it, words came rushing out as he lifted his head to look Jackson in the eyes. “I want to date you, holy shit, Jackson. Are we dating? We’re totally in a relationship, you made me a cake, fuck me—” the raised eyebrows shut him up for a second, rethink his wording—”I mean, wow. I, well, uh, see you later, gotta go, bye.” 

The last sentence rushed so quickly out that he couldn’t take it back, he realized belatedly. And that’s when he noticed that there was a twist of heat pooling at his groin and he had to get out of there fast before he made more of a fool of himself. 

Jackson had laughed at that, albeit bewildered, and called, “I’ll see you after later!” Stiles hears the huge grin on his face.

For the rest of his shift, Stiles’ brain is basically mush. He trips over himself far too many times and fumbles with his orders and eventually switches with the short, blonde girl to become a busboy. It’s better, even if he drops a plate until it shatters, with an “oops.” 

Finally, when it’s all said and done, Stiles clocks out and heads back to his place, ready to shower and change and relax for a little bit. Without really thinking of it, he strides to his jeep to pull out his laundry bag, which should’ve been stuffed full over the weekend, but he didn’t leave like he was meant to, so it sat empty in his trunk. 

And that’s when Jackson shows up, all stocky lines of his body and open expression of happiness etched on his face. “Hey, Stilinski,” he greets, a hand grasping right along Stiles’ collarbone, “How was work?” and it’s so easy to melt into the touch and his jitteriness evaporates. 

He complains a little, his back hurts a smidge, and he broke a plate, but he’s good, now. He doesn’t have anything else to say so he shrugs, the mesh bag in his hand jumping with the movement. It catches Jackson’s eye and he squints, eyebrows confused, and asks if he’s going somewhere, a hint of a laugh at the back of his throat. He drops his hand to his side and just smiles, lopsided, expression so similar to Scott’s when he talks of Allison that it hurts.

Stiles swallows, eyes roaming for a minute, follow the muscles in Jackson’s arms, looks at his hands, his chest as he breathes, his body in general. And Stiles is so caught off guard with how attractive Jackson is. 

He doesn’t realize he said anything until Jackson’s face lights up even more, though his eyes darken a tad. “Hot?” he asks, smirking minutely, “And look who’s talking.” Backing up two steps, and Stiles’ back hits the side of his car, cool metal at his skin for the second time today. Jackson follows eagerly, a hand hitting the car and resting his his head and the other falling to catch Stiles’ hip, again. He’s all confident heat and it goes right to Stiles’ head, both of them. 

Their lips lock and it’s the same feeling he gets when he takes a bite of his favorite foods, but more and better. Jackson doesn’t taste like anything in particular but it’s still so good and he’s so overwhelmed with the fact that he’s kissing Jackson Whittemore. 

He’s feeling oddly daring, so the moment that Jackson sucks a breath in, Stiles crashes right back into him to chase his tongue. It feels weird, but in a good kind of way, so he lets it slide along Jackson’s, hands reaching for hair and shirt. As his hand weaves through blonde, short hair, Jackson steps more into Stiles’ space, thigh pushing gently between his legs. It’s a shocked reflex, tightening his grip on Jackson’s hair and tugging, but the moan that mixes with Stiles’ heavy breaths encourages him. 

So he tilts his head more, arm reaching around to grab at Jackson’s back and pulling him closer. He’s got an inch or so on Jackson so when he tips his head down to deepen the kiss, it’s like brand new territory. Jackson takes initiative and pushes his thigh more firmly between Stiles, feels how turned on Stiles is and groans, wraps both his arms around Stiles’ neck to keep him locked in the kiss. 

“You have no idea,” he’s mumbling between choppy kisses, a keening sound whining at the back of his throat before diving down to nip along Stiles’ jaw. And Stiles can do nothing but nod, his mouth falling open, eyes closed, blissed out. 

Sloppy, chapped lips slide down to his neck, a rasping sound coming from the stubble he missed shaving. “Jackson,” he says, unsure of what else to say, but knows he has to say something. 

In turn, Jackson just hums against his neck, sucking not so gently at a spot right above his collar. Stiles’s stomach twists happily, knees wobbling. He curses under his breath, grinning as he knocks his head back against the door of the jeep. 

Which is when the alarm goes off, honking and flashing its lights like its purpose is to bring every single person’s attention to the two of them, making out in the open air. Scrambling, Stiles reaches for his keys in his pockets, checks each one but the right one and after a long thirty seconds, he finally clicks the button to shut off the alarm. 

He squeezes his eyes shut in horror, too afraid to even look at Jackson, when he hears a laugh, and not a condescending one either, He peeks through one eye to see Jackson step back, eyes bright, grinning openly. “Come on, I’ll walk you to your door,” he says, holding in another laugh. 

And after they kiss good night, Stiles bangs his head on the door after shutting it. He hears Jackson laugh outside of it and smiles to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who's back back back, back again  
> sexual tension's back back back back, tell a friend  
> (also me, i'm back and i am writing this fic even if it KILLS me)


End file.
